


Find It and Lose It

by PhoenixFalls



Series: Shore to Ocean [1]
Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey, Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Camellia House, F/F, Heliotrope House, Melancholy, One Night Stands, Unproblematic Prostitution (Trope)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:55:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixFalls/pseuds/PhoenixFalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myka no Camellia fell head over heels for a sultry laugh when she was ten years old. Over a decade later, after becoming Myka no Heliotrope, she was able to put a name to the laugh: Helena de la Roncière, a scion of Shemhazai, and a woman destined to break Myka's heart just a little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Find It and Lose It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Phantom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantom/gifts).



> We matched on two fandoms, so I *had* to write a fusion. :)
> 
> For anyone unfamiliar with the world of the Kushiel's Legacy series, I've put a bit of a primer to the places and systems I've referenced up as chapter two. It doesn't spoil the books or the fic, it's just there in case I haven't been clear enough in the text. No knowledge of Warehouse 13 is required.
> 
> And a minor warning: You should be aware that the age of consent in Terre d'Ange is 16, and there is implied sex between 16-year-old Myka and Daniel Dickinson. It happens entirely offscreen and is in no way traumatic, so I don't think I wrote anything that quite needs the underage warning, but if anybody else thinks the fic needs it after reading, I'll happily add it.

The first time Myka saw Helena was at her first Spring Masque.

Myka was ten and one-quarter, and as such she was finally allowed to serve at Camellia House’s annual Masque. She and the other Camellia House adepts were costumed simply, in pale green sheath dresses and simple white dominoes with a hint of yellow around the eyes, designed to evoke the paperwhites that bloomed cheerfully in the still mostly-barren garden beds. They had been circulating the crowd of mingling D’Angeline nobles and servants of Naamah with glasses of white wine for over an hour, and Myka was carefully weaving her way through the crowd back towards the kitchens with her empty tray when a woman’s laugh caught her ear, rich and throaty.

Myka glanced to the side, following the sound, and caught a glimpse of dark hair being pushed behind an ear by long nimble fingers, dark eyes behind a clockwork domino intent not on the crowd but on the mechanisms under the stage, and then Myka was going sprawling, tripping over the borrowed sandals she had had to switch to just that morning because her feet had seemingly outgrown her own pair overnight.

She leapt back to her feet, still clutching the tray, face burning, but did not run from the ballroom like her hammering heart was encouraging her to. Instead, she ran a shaking hand down the fabric of her gown, ensuring that the line lay smooth again, returned the tray to its proper position exactly of a height with her shoulder, and resumed her measured pace through the crowd.

Myka knew that an appointment with a switch lay in her future — Camellia’s canon was perfection, and there was no room for Myka’s clumsiness in that pursuit — but she would not make any more of a spectacle of herself than she already had. The laugh that had distracted her drifted through the crowd again, but Myka ignored it.

***

The second time Myka saw Helena was at the auction for her virgin-price.

Myka was sixteen years old exactly, and she was kneeling _abeyante_ on the dais at Heliotrope House. Heliotrope was not Alyssum, where she would have had to keep her eyes downcast, the picture of modesty; here, she had been taught to look each bidder in the face and smile — not with her lips, for it was a solemn occasion, but with her eyes, as if the sight of each prospective patron filled her with delight.

Heliotrope had bought Myka’s marque because she had a good face for that particular expression, large eyes a warm shade of green and a wide expressive mouth, but Myka still felt unsettled wearing it. At Camellia, adepts stood for their auctions, not out of pride the way a Dahlia adept would, but with the confidence that no matter what angle a patron viewed them at their every proportion was ideal, chest to waist to hip within the ratios set out in Camellia’s canon, each half of their face a perfect mirror image of the other half. Myka had practiced that for years, posing with the other adepts when they were supposed to be sleeping, but when she was fifteen she had added three inches to her height in a season and outgrown any possibility of meeting the canon of the house she was born to.

So here she knelt, eight months later, trying desperately to remember the rushed lessons of her new house and maintain the proper joyous expectation as the bidding slowed humiliatingly early. A grey-haired man with sad eyes bid 900 ducats, and that bid went unanswered for several long moments. Myka began to spread her lips into a smile when a low but undeniably feminine voice called out “Oh come, we must make it an even thousand, at least.”

Myka turned to her new bidder gratefully and could not help the way her eyes widened slightly in shock. Despite the years that had passed and the lack of obscuring domino, Myka had the eye for detail of someone trained by Camellia House, and she recognized the woman whose laugh had ruined her first Spring Masque. Myka’s heart beat faster and she felt herself flush, part remembered embarrassment and part confused arousal.

The woman’s bid set off a flurry of renewed interest, though she did not bid again, smirking from the sidelines. The grey-haired man eventually won the bidding, but he paid a more respectable 1,450 ducats, to Myka’s relief. After that, her first night with a patron went well, and the man — Daniel — gave her a generous patron-gift, allowing her to limn the base of her marque on the unblemished skin of her back.

But Myka was curious, so the next day she snuck a peek at Heliotrope’s patron book, at the list of bidders at her auction. The woman’s name was Helena de la Roncière.

***

The third time Myka saw Helena, Helena became Myka’s patron.

Myka was twenty-one years old, and after a slow start she had acquired several regular patrons, and her marque was over a third completed due to the generosity of their patron gifts. She was nowhere near the most popular of Heliotrope’s adepts — she had never quite developed the trick of openness that was effortlessly beguiling about the best of her peers — but she had learned to use the ability to read patrons that Camellia had trained in her to find the ones that would be drawn to her greater reserve.

One freezing evening in February, Myka made her way to the salon just after sunset and paused on the threshold. Reclining on one of the couches angled away from Myka was a familiar figure — silky dark hair, elegantly expressive hands, darkly mellifluous voice. Myka had given up her half-formed hope that Helena de la Roncière would ever seek her out years ago, after learning that she patronized Eglantine House’s madcap adepts almost exclusively; yet here she was in Heliotrope’s salon, and apparently unengaged.

Myka took a deep breath, then walked brazenly up to Helena’s couch. “May I sit with you?”

Helena looked Myka up and down slowly, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “You are rather lovely. Yes, I suppose you may.”

Myka settled back into the cushions. Normally she maintained excellent posture, unable to break the habits of Camellia House, but Helena was practically sprawled in one corner, legs and arms spread languidly, and Myka found herself mirroring that position a bit, twisting her back into the other corner and slouching slightly. A servant brought over the wine and both Myka and Helena took a glass, clinking them together and taking a sip.

Helena set her glass on the table. “I’m—“

“Helena de la Roncière,” Myka blurted out.

Helena raised an eyebrow. “My reputation precedes me, I take it.”

Myka blushed. “No I— I mean, we’ve met before.”

Helena’s gaze turned quizzical. “Have we? I am afraid I must admit I do not remember you. Was it at a masque?”

Myka had no intention of reminding Helena of the spectacle she had made a decade ago in Camellia House. “No. You bid — you were here on the night I came of age.”

Helena reached out to grasp Myka’s chin, tilted her face a couple different ways. “Ah! Irène’s favor. I do remember you.”

Myka felt her stomach clench in disappointment, to learn that Helena had not bid out of desire, but chose to ignore it. Helena was still speaking. “But how on earth did you remember me after all this time?”

“I have a really good memory.”

“You certainly do.” Helena loosed her hold on Myka’s chin, and Myka immediately missed the warmth. “I must admit, had I known you would grow to be this enchanting, I would have bid higher.”

Myka bit her lip, feeling suddenly shy in the face of Helena’s open admiration. She took another sip of her wine to gather her thoughts. “You don’t usually come to Heliotrope though. . .?”

“So why am I here? That seems a rather personal question, particularly as you still have not formally introduced yourself to me. I’m afraid my memory for names is no rival to yours.”

“Oh! Sorry. I’m Myka.”

“Myka.” Helena practically caressed the name, and Myka couldn’t help but shiver. Helena’s eyes lit at that sight, and her lips curled up into a smirk. “The art of making light conversation is one of the glues that holds civilization together, and any question beginning with ‘why’ is far too heavy for this early in the evening.”

Myka couldn’t help her blush at the mild chiding; determined, she tossed her head back and returned a challenging smile of her own. “Of course, my Lady. Shall we begin with a ‘what’ instead? What do you think of the King’s Poet’s latest work?”

They talked of poetry, then of philosophy, then somehow Helena turned the conversation to a refinement she had recently made to her crossbow, increasing both its range and its accuracy. Myka was fairly certain that Helena brought it up as a test, but Myka’s father had overseen Camellia House’s library since before Myka’s birth, and she had read widely enough to understand the principles Helena had worked from.

Helena was obviously surprised, and Myka knew she had triumphed when Helena threw back the rest of her wine recklessly and said, “Well, Myka, I believe I have had enough of these formalities. Would you care to lead me to your quarters?”

Myka swallowed the rest of her wine as well, then stood and held out her hand to help Helena to her feet. “Come with me.”

Myka took her time with Helena, undressing her and learning her body with hands and mouth. She discovered that there was a spot, high on the inside of Helena’s left wrist, that made Helena tremble; there was another spot, where the bottom of her breast met her ribcage, that made Helena cry out in startled pleasure. By the time Myka sought out Naamah’s Pearl Helena was writhing, head thrown back and fingers twisted in Myka’s curls.

Myka reached down to bring herself to a quick climax, lips and tongue still busy with Helena’s arousal, then used the fingers wet with her slick to push in, seeking out Helena’s secret places. Helena’s climax, when it hit her, came from deep within and went on for a long time.

In the afterglow, Myka wiped Helena down with soft cloths wetted in a bowl of water she kept warm at the fireplace. She scattered kisses across Helena’s flesh, and in the soft firelight Helena twined her fingers with Myka’s, brought their clasped hands to rest on her belly, and whispered her reason for wanting the simple devotion of Heliotrope more than the heady genius of Eglantine this wintry night. Whispered her fears and hopes for the child growing inside her.

Myka felt her heart fill for Helena and spilled reassurances onto her skin. It was easy to believe that Helena would be a wonderful mother, that her child would grow up beautiful and intelligent and happy. When Helena was soothed, Myka helped her back into her clothing, listened without turning her head to the clink of Helena’s patron-gift falling into Myka's statue of Naamah’s Hands, and kissed her goodbye.

Alone, Myka pulled her robe tighter around her shoulders and ran distracted hands through her hair, tangled from the way Helena had pulled it. It had been so easy to fall that little bit in love with Helena, easier than it was with most of Myka’s patrons, and she could tell that this memory would ache in the coming days. Myka knew, after five years as a servant of Naamah, how to tell if a patron would return or not, and Myka would likely never see Helena de la Roncière again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this fic comes from Imriel's prophesied fate in Kushiel's Scion: "Love, child! What else? You will find it and lose it, again and again. And with each finding and each loss, you will become more than before. What you make of it is yours to choose.”
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this fusion, and now have SO MUCH headcanon about it that didn't make it into the fic, which is why I've labeled it the start of a series. I would like to write more in this world, but I make no promises to actually do it -- I already have a TON of other plot bunnies on my plate. So if you have any questions about the world or where various characters fit in, feel free to ask either in the comments or over on my tumblr!


	2. A Quick and Dirty Primer to the World of Terre d'Ange

The nine books in the Kushiel's Legacy series are centered around a country called Terre d'Ange, which is roughly analogous to Renaissance France. Its main point of divergence is that the people of Terre d'Ange (called D'Angelines) are not Christian; instead, they follow a polytheistic religion whose primary tenet is "Love as thou wilt." To this end, all forms of consensual sex are celebrated, bisexuality and polyamory are the defaults, prostitution is a sacred calling, and committing rape is blasphemous. And because it is a fantasy world, women can only get pregnant once they've "lit a candle to Eisheth" (literally -- Eisheth is a sort of fertility goddess) and there are apparently no sexually transmitted infections.

**The Night Court:** Officially the "Court of the Night-Blooming Flowers;" a commercial organization of the premier courtesans (called servants of Naamah) in the land. Made up of thirteen Houses, each of which has a different focus, or "canon." It runs on a form of indentured servitude: children who are born to the House or who are bought by the House are trained to become high class courtesans, and at sixteen they begin servicing "patrons." The patron pays a fee to the House for their services, and then customarily gives the courtesan a tip (called a "patron-gift") that belongs to the courtesan alone. The courtesan uses their patron-gifts to purchase the services of a tattoo artist (called a "marquist") to give them an elaborate back piece (called a "marque"). Once a courtesan has accumulated enough patron-gifts to complete their marque, their debt to their House is considered filled. From that point on, their patrons pay their fees directly to the courtesan, and the courtesan can choose to live on their own or rent space from their House. However, since consent is so important to D'Angelines, no child of the House can be forced to become a servant of Naamah; if they do not wish to dedicate themselves to that life (or if their House decides that they do not meet the House's canon sufficiently) then an alternate path to paying off their marque must be provided. 

  * **Alyssum House:** Its canon is modesty; its courtesans develop shy, virginal personas. 
  * **Camellia House:** Its canon is perfection; its courtesans are expected to be as flawless as humanly possible. 
  * **Dahlia House:** Its canon is dignity; its courtesans develop haughty, reserved personas. 
  * **Eglantine House:** Its canon is creativity; its courtesans are extensively trained in whatever arts best suit them, and are known for possessing a streak of "madcap genius." 
  * **Gentian House:** Its canon is mysticism; its courtesans are trained in mystical arts such as dream interpretation. 
  * **Heliotrope House:** Its canon is devotion; its courtesans build an illusion of love for their patrons. 



**The Noble Houses:** Terre d'Ange is feudal, and divided into seven provinces. Each province's noble houses are thought to have their own personality based on the personality of the god that they are descended from.

  * **Siovale:** Founded by Shemhazai, the god of knowledge and learning. Siovalese nobles are often scholars and inventors. Roncière is a Siovalese noble house of my own invention. 



**Miscellaneous Glossary Terms:**

  * **Abeyante:** A kneeling position that the adepts of the Night Court are trained to maintain for hours at a time. 
  * **Naamah's Hands:** A small statue of cupped hands that servants of Naamah keep on their nightstands to collect patron-gifts. 
  * **Naamah's Pearl:** A woman's clitoris. 




End file.
